A/N: AT LAST the nashville installation.... please note these are the clips [x] [x] [x] that triggered me to write this... in case you'd like some imagination inspo <3 and shout out to sav for the ***** **** idea hehehe
tags: softdom!cal x bratty!reader (afab, no y/n), p w no plot (pure filth), fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, finish inside, creampie, edging / overstimulation, a little praise a little degradation, exhibitionism? (kind of? idk you'll see..)
Messing with Calum was fun. He was too easy to rile up, especially when they hadn’t gotten a moment to themselves in days.
The day wasn’t any different to their usual, just a bit slower, mixed in with errands and appearances. But, God, she was bored out of her mind today. It was clear he was too – his eyes continuously drifting to her, the temporary indent on the bridge of his nose from how many times he’d pinched it to stay awake, the occasional bouncing leg.
It was only fair she took matters into her own hands to entertain them both.
The next time they were seated together, she inched closer, just enough for her thigh to brush against his. He looked over to find her checking her nails, no sign that she’d felt the contact too.
When they found themselves in line at a café during a short break, her fingers casually traced the tattoos on his bicep while she went on about coffee beans. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what she was doing and he’d let her have her fun for now.
By her fifth attempt (her hand had traveled a little too far up his leg under the table at her work dinner), he was hanging on by a thread. Glancing down at her nails tracing over the seams of his jeans, he leaned down close enough so only she could hear, “What are you doing?”
She smiled up at him, the picture of innocence, tilting her chin up to kiss his cheek, “Nothing.”
He gawked at her as she gently squeezed his thigh, fingers brushing against the tent in his pants that hadn’t had a chance to slacken since she had started her game. Her hand was a permanent fixture on him for the rest of the night, ignorant to the ache he was enduring.
The drive home had been a nightmare for him. She’d taken down her hair, her palm still finding its way to his thigh. It truly was a miracle he kept the car on the road when she leaned over to kiss his neck. His white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel made her laugh, pursing her lips with a smile when he glared at her from the corner of his eye.
It really was all in good fun. Until they finally made it back to the apartment.
Sighing in relief after taking her heels off, she settles on the edge of the bed. The absolute torture she’d put him through long forgotten as he approaches her.
“What are you doing?” She eyes him warily as he languidly descends to his knees.
“Exactly what you were doing all day,” his eyes never leave hers as he mockingly repeats her words from earlier, “‘Nothing’.”
“Okay, wait,” a nervous laugh escapes her, “That’s not fair–”
“No?” His hands trail up her thighs, lifting the skirt of her dress. “You seemed to think it was pretty fair to get me hard, and keep me hard, the whole day.”
“That obviously wasn’t on purpose!”
He raises his brows, fingers toying with the waistband of her panties.
“Sure, I believe you,” holding back a smile when she visibly relaxes, “I guess this isn’t on purpose either, then.”
The sound of lace ripping echoes through the room, her jaw dropping in shock. She struggles to piece together words, her eyes flicking between the scraps of her underwear on the floor and his indifferent state – breath already ghosting over her skin.
“Calum, what the actual f–”
“I’ll get you a dozen more,” his voice is gruff against her, lips trailing kisses all the way up to the apex of her thighs.
Eyes on her like a hawk, he catches every hitch of her breath, every tense muscle, as he pauses right at her core. She whines when he pulls away, the amused look in his eyes almost making her regret every decision she’s made today. Almost.
“You were awfully mouthy today,” he murmurs, his fingers moving to loosen her grip on their sheets, “And these beautiful hands were wandering a little too much.”
She watches as he intertwines their fingers, continuing to speak on her behaviour, “In front of everyone, with absolutely no shame. That’s fucked up, babe.”
Looking back at his face, she sucks in a sharp breath finding his heated gaze already on her.
She scoffs, trying to play it cool, “Sorry for trying to have fun.”
“Oh, you wanna have fun?” The corner of his mouth turns up to the slightest smirk, the dangerous spark in his eyes making her stiffen, “Let’s have fun.”
He untwines their fingers, one of his hands engulfing both of her wrists to hold them in place.
“You move, I stop. You mouth back to me, I stop. Understood?”
“Ye–” She stops herself with an abrupt nod.
Smiling proudly at how quickly she’s catching on, he kisses her knee before spreading her legs wider. It’s his turn to take his time and he moves slow, his glacial pace already making her restless.
Messing with her was fun. She was too easy to rile up – easier than Calum.
His touch is featherlight as he works his way up, kisses few and far in between until he’s finally made it back to her core. Laughing lightly when he sees how wet she already is, his breath ghosts over her, sending a chill up her spine.
Starting with light kisses along the seam of her folds, he hums contentedly at her scent finally invading his senses. His eyes flit up to hers, not wanting to miss a single reaction. Finding her brows furrowed and eyes squeezed shut, he frowns.
“New rule,” he murmurs, the vibration nearly making her squirm, “Eyes on me. Close them, I stop. Look away, I stop.”
She opens her eyes, narrowing them as her lips part to retaliate – but she knows better. So she simply nods.
The way she can feel him smile against her is obscene, but he doesn’t give her too long to think about it.
His tongue carefully licks up the dribble of arousal, eyes boring into hers as his nose nudges her clit before wrapping his lips around it. He hesitates when her breath hitches, but proceeds with his worship. Drawing slow patterns around the nub, he watches her intently as he starts to suck gently.
When she gasps and curses under her breath, he pauses momentarily – just to goad her. Grinning when it works and she starts complaining, he pulls back to look up at her.
“Are you kidding?” She cries breathlessly, eyes wild, “You can’t fault me for making noises! I didn’t even say anything, Calum. You are being so unfair right now–”
He hums with a nod, “Is this not a perfect example of you mouthing back?” Doing nothing to hide his cocky smile once realisation dawns on her face.
“You’re a dick.”
“One that you want, and one that you’re going to keep quiet to get.” His grasp on her wrists tightens briefly, “Can you do that for me? Or would you prefer to argue about technicalities?”
She glares at him. Huffing and pursing her lips shut, urging herself to relax under him again.
He’s kind enough to pick up where he left off, his lips latching onto her immediately. Forcing her eyes open to see the determined look in his, she bites her cheek to refrain from causing any more interruptions.
The relentless suction of his lips and pressure from his tongue are quick to send her hurtling towards her orgasm. She has half a mind to bite down on her lip to keep her mouth shut in preparation for finally getting what she wants. But when he nips at her clit, any semblance of control leaves her, hips bucking up towards his assault.
He pulls back immediately, removing all contact.
The whimper that leaves her is pitiful. In any other circumstance he would feel bad, really. But it’s only fair he gets to have some fun too.
“Still bored?” He grins, lips glossy from her.
If looks could kill, Calum would be six feet under. Possibly deeper.
She refuses to speak up this time, hoping it’ll bring his mouth back on her quicker. Adjusting his fingers to the pulse point of her wrists, he waits until it slows down before returning to his feast.
He doesn’t hold back this time, lips adhered to her like she’s his only source of oxygen. His tongue travels lower, finally delving inside her while his nose continues to bump her clit. Groaning at her taste, his free hand spreads her thigh further apart in a desperate attempt to get as much and as close as possible.
He’d almost forgotten about the throbbing ache in his pants, but he can feel the damp spot from his leaking cock grow. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s finished just from going down on her, but tonight he wants his first release to be in her. So he doubles down on his efforts, refusing to think about himself before she has at least one orgasm. Alternating his attention from her weeping cunt to her clit, he hums contentedly at how well she’s behaving.
He swears he had no intention of cutting her off a third time. Until her phone rang.
“Pick it up.”
She doesn’t acknowledge him at first, thinking she’s hallucinating his words and the ringtone in her current state of mind-numbing pleasure. Blinking back to reality when he slows down to sloppy kisses and lets go of her wrists. Her brows furrow in confusion.
“Sorry?”
“Pick up the phone.”
The laughter dies in her throat at his unwavering gaze. He’s being serious.
“No. Absolutely not. We’re in the middle of this and you’ve fucked me over twice already and,” she glances at her phone, “It’s my colleague. She probably just wants to gossip about the dinner, which can wait until tomorrow.”
“Mhm,” he nods, licking her clean before sitting back on his thighs with that stupid smile, “Wasn’t a question. You didn’t seem to mind when you were feeling me up at dinner tonight, so pick up the damn phone.”
The look in her eye makes it clear she’s taking note of his ridiculous behaviour for later. But he doesn’t care. He loves their back and forth too much.
She picks up the call. Moving to cross her legs, she looks back down when she feels an obstruction. He’s shouldered himself between her thighs.
“What the hell are you doing?” She hisses, hand cupping over the phone while she tries to simultaneously pay attention to her coworker’s story of who got a little too drunk and exposed whatever menial secret.
He grins, nipping gently at her inner thigh as he whispers, “Focus, babe.”
Not so much furious as she is frustrated, she does her best to ignore him in hopes that he’ll be content with his current position. But they both know better than that.
His fingers start tracing her lips, puffy from his lengthy worship, her breath hitching at his delicate touch. Watching her reaction as he gently presses down on her swollen clit, his smirk is devious when she loses her train of thought.
“R-Right, yeah, I noticed that too,” she quickly recovers, giving him a warning glance, but he couldn’t care less.
Developing a sudden interest in anatomy (he’d argue he’s always had an interest in her anatomy), his fingers continue to toy with her. His eyes light up when he eventually spreads her lips open, the glistening view one he’ll never be able to get enough of.
“You were so confident at dinner,” he whispers, blowing cool air on her burning skin, “Wonder what they’d think if they saw you like this.”
A quiet sound escapes her, clearing her throat to cover it up as her colleague continues to yap on the other end.
“Oh,” he laughs lightly when she clenches around nothing, the amusement clear in his voice, “Are you enjoying this?”
Her cheeks flush bright red, mouthing a ‘fuck you’ to him before redirecting her attention back to the call.
Fingers circling her dripping entrance, his middle one pushes through. Her hand flies to her mouth to silence her gasp, but it’s too late. He can faintly hear the person on the other end asking if everything’s alright.
“Yeah!” She laughs nervously, “I just can’t believe he said that to you. And then what happened?”
Her hand moves to his shoulder, trying to push him away as she squirms under his ministrations. He takes it as a challenge.
Slowly slipping in his ring finger too, his mouth is back on her. “Squeezing me so tight,” he chuckles against her, “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”
Attempting and failing to keep her breathing in check, she bites down on her hand when his fingers curl up. The calloused tips brushing against the spongy spot that has her momentarily blacking out.
“Fuck,” she gasps under her breath. “I’m so sorry. Going to have to call you back tomorrow.” Before she can hear a response, her phone is tossed haphazardly across the bed.
Her hands move to his hair, fingers tugging at his curls, “You’re a piece of fucking work.”
He hums passively, grinning as he nips at her clit, “Learned from the best.”
Finally satisfied with how much he’s teased her, he pulls out all the stops. He’s all tongue and teeth, fingers dextrously stretching her out for him as the amalgamation of his spit and her release pool under her.
The combination of her moans and the lewd sounds of his fingers pistoning her hole have him right on the edge. He curves his fingers again, suckling on her clit as she starts to convulse around him. “That’s right,” his voice is low against her, “There we go. Think you’ve put up with enough to deserve this.”
A final brush against her G-spot has her seeing stars, crying out as her grip tightens on his hair, hips rolling up as he works her through it. He keeps licking at her, tongue flattening to take as much as he can while his fingers slow down.
She falls back on their bed with a groan, whimpering when he eventually removes his fingers to suck them clean.
Her ears perk up at the clink of his belt buckle hitting the ground. Sitting up on her elbows to eye him as he speaks up, “Got one more for me?”
Her eyes flick down, mouth watering at the sight of his cock springing up, the blush pink tip already leaking.
“Were you not planning on that after everything you put me through?”
Smiling at her near pout, he’s on her immediately. Nuzzling into the crook of her neck as the length of him brushes along her slit, coating him in her release. “Of course,” he kisses up the column of her throat to murmur against her lips, “My good girl deserves it.”
Her pupils dilate at his words, and he knows there’s no point in dragging this along any further. He reaches between them to line himself up with her entrance, tongue gently parting her lips, “Okay?”
She nods eagerly, kissing him back. No longer interested in entertaining his payback, she pushes forward to take him in. Groaning at the pressure of her enveloping his tip, his hands grip onto her hips, pushing her down to the mattress as he breaches her in one smooth thrust.
The sound that leaves her sends his hips stuttering even deeper. Her hands move to grab onto his biceps when he pulls out, leaving just the bulging head inside of her. Hesitantly detaching their lips, they both sneak a glance between them. The sight has him cussing under his breath, her walls fluttering around him in a desperate attempt to draw him back in.
He takes in a shaky breath, trying to pace himself, knowing full well he won’t last as long as he wants to if he gives in to her. “I can’t– need to slow down, babe. Might finish too soon–”
“Good!” She whines frustratedly, words tumbling out in attempts to convince him to just let go, “You’ve made me wait long enough, you said I deserved it, this isn’t fair. Please don’t hold back, can take it all, I promise–”
Her pleas are broken off by a loud moan when he rams back into her. He’s careful, slow, but each thrust is harder than the last, his cockhead kissing her cervix at every return.
“Still such a mouth on you,” he grunts breathlessly, his grip on her waist bruising, “Gonna have to fuck it out of you, hm?”
“Yeah, whatever,” she gasps, rolling her hips up to meet his advances, “Just don’t stop.”
He can’t help the laugh that escapes him, leaning down to kiss her, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
True to his word, he’s unforgiving with his actions. Hands drifting down to her legs, his thumbs deceptively brush under her knees before carefully hiking her thighs up. Her breath catches at the new angle, eyes fluttering shut as she clamps down on him, feeling him move against every ridge of her walls.
“Fuck,” he gasps into her mouth, faltering at the pressure. “Need you to cum with me, need to feel you around my cock,” he chokes out, “Been such a good girl, think you can do that for me?”
She mewls a wordless agreement, nails clawing at the muscle of his arms when he reaches down to pry at her clit. The rough pad of his thumb has her keeling over almost immediately, gripping him like a vice, draining him of everything he has to give.
His hips jerk as he empties himself inside of her. Unrelenting with the friction on her overstimulated bundle of nerves, he’s eager to edge her towards another orgasm before she can come down from the high of the current one.
“Cal–” she sobs, writhing under him, the feeling of his throbbing length heightening every sensation two-fold, “‘s too much.”
“Didn’t want me to stop, right?” He grunts when she pulses around him, waiting until she nods to continue, “Then I think you can take one more.”
Picking up the pace again, he doesn’t let up until his name is the only thing on her lips and she’s a limp mess against the mattress. He slows down his working of her clit, hips coming to a tapered stop as she whimpers. Finally letting go of his arms, he only now notices the sting of her nails in their wake.
“Still with me?” He murmurs, placing gentle kisses along her jaw, his lips absorbing the salt of her tears.
She hums as her eyes struggle open to look at him.
“Did so good for me,” he smiles softly, “Took me really well, sweetheart. Wanna see?”
She nods, mustering up what limited strength she has left to move up to her elbows. Her breath hitches at the scene between them. He’s nearly flush against her, about an inch of his base peeking out where the evidence of both of their satisfaction gathers in a milky ring.
Hesitantly reaching down, her fingers trace where they connect, looking up at him when he hisses at the touch. She moves to where she stretches around him, letting out a shaky sigh at the contact on her sore folds.
“It’s okay. Lie down,” he gently brushes her hair back, voice low and soothing, “I’ll take care of her.”
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context: the beautiful background of how you and michael fell in love.
—MASTERLIST
Michael Jackson was depressed.
He was a single parent to three children, including a newborn baby boy whose fragile, tiny life felt like a profound, terrifying weight on his chest, and he was quite literally fighting for his survival.
Every single day was a grueling, uphill battle against the crushing gravity of his own name. Despite being the undisputed King of Pop, despite the flashing lights, the gold records, and the roaring stadiums that echoed inside his memory, his world had shrunk down to the echoing, hollow hallways of Neverland and the heavy, suffocating silence of an isolated life. He was drowning, completely exhausted, and navigating a deep, dark winter of the soul.
Then came the 2002 World Music Awards in Monaco.
The backstage holding area was a chaotic labyrinth of security guards, frantic publicists, and artificial smiles. Michael sat in the dim corner of his dressing room, his fedora tilted low, his long fingers trembling slightly as he adjusted the silver armbands of his jacket. He felt entirely detached from the spectacle outside.
But then, the green-room monitor flickered to life, broadcasting the live stage.
You walked out to present the evening's highest honor. You were semi-famous—a critically acclaimed actress and humanitarian who had managed to maintain a pristine, grounded reputation just on the periphery of Hollywood's superficial glare. The moment you stepped up to the microphone Michael’s breath hitched.
"There is a difference between entertainment and magic. Entertainment keeps us occupied. Magic changes the way we see the world. Tonight, we are here to celebrate—."
Your voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a rich, velvet resonance that completely cut through the ambient static of the auditorium. There was an effortless grace to your posture, a gentle, intuitive warmth in the way you smiled at the audience, and an undeniable glint of sharp, grounded wit in your eyes.
Michael stood up from his chair, his dark eyes entirely glued to the screen. For the first time in years, a sudden, electric spark cut right through his numbness. He felt a magnetic, irrational pull toward you—a desperate, consuming need to be near whatever light you were radiating.
"Wow.." Michael whispered, his voice a breathless rasp as he turned to his manager. "Find out where she’s sitting. Now."
Twenty minutes later, you returned to your seat in the VIP front row, smoothing the silk of your dress as the house lights dimmed for a performance. The seat to your left had been empty all evening, marked by a reserved placard. But as the music swelled, a sudden flurry of tall security guards created a wall of black suits beside your aisle.
A slender figure slipped into the empty chair.
You turned your head slightly, your eyes widening in genuine surprise as Michael Jackson adjusted his pants and settled into the seat right next to you. He was a vision of old-school showmanship— the aviator sunglasses hiding his eyes, the military-style jacket gleaming under the stage lights.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. You simply offered him a polite, gentle nod, respecting his space. But Michael was a complete, frantic internal wreck. He could feel the soft scent of your perfume, and his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"Um... hello," Michael suddenly blurted out, his voice cracking slightly in the quiet of the row. He quickly cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers nervously drumming against his knee. "That was... you did a beautiful job up there. With the speech. It was very... very poetic."
You turned fully toward him, a warm, genuine smile breaking across your face. "Thank you, Mr. Jackson. I appreciate that, especially coming from the king himself."
Michael froze, his jaw loosening slightly beneath his mask. He slowly reached up, his long, slender fingers trembling as he pulled his aviator sunglasses down to the bridge of his nose, exposing his large, liquid-dark eyes to you. They were wide, vulnerable, and completely starstruck by you.
"You... you know who I am?" he stammered, an incredibly endearing, awkward shyness taking over his entire demeanor. It was a ridiculous question—he was the most famous man on the planet—but in that moment, he felt like a nervous teenager.
You let out a soft, melodic laugh that made his chest tighten with affection. "I think the entire world knows who you are, Michael. But I’m honored to officially meet you. I'm Y/N."
"Y/N," he repeated, testing the syllables on his tongue like a sacred lyric, his voice dropping into that sweet, breathless melody. "That’s a beautiful name. Really beautiful. I... I think I read your interview in Vogue last month. About your charity work in South Africa. I thought it was amazing. Most people in this industry, they just... they just care about the clothes and the parties, you know? But you have a heart. I could see it."
He was completely talking your ear off now, the words spilling out of him in a nervous, rapid-fire rush. He was fidgeting with his silver cuffs, shifting his weight, and leaning in so close you could see the fine texture of his skin. He was incredibly awkward, entirely lacking the smooth, untouchable confidence of his stage persona, but it was the most genuine, raw thing you had ever witnessed.
"Michael," you whispered gently, leaning in slightly with a playful, witty grin to calm his frantic energy. "Are you always this chatty or am I just special?"
Michael’s cheeks flushed a deep, beautiful crimson. He let out a high-pitched, delighted giggle, hiding his face behind his black-gloved hand for a second before looking back at you, his eyes crinkling with absolute adoration.
"You're special," he murmured softly, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made the rest of the crowded auditorium completely fade into white noise. "Very, very special."
Michael didn't just ask for your number; he pursued you with a fierce, unrelenting intensity that bordered on absolute obsession. The shy, bumbling man from the awards seat had transformed into a determined romantic hunter, though his methods remained entirely endearing.
The morning after the awards, you woke up in your hotel suite to find the entire living space completely transformed. There were no less than five hundred long-stemmed, rare white roses filling every available vase, corner, and tabletop. Tucked into the center arrangement was a small, heavy cream-colored card written in his distinct, elegant looping handwriting.
To Y/N,
I haven't been able to sleep because my head is filled with the sound of your laugh. All I do is think of you. Please let me take you to dinner. I promise I'll let you do most of the talking this time.
With all my love,
Michael.
When you finally called the private number left on the card, his voice picked up on the very first ring, raspy and breathless.
"Y/N? Oh my god, thank you for calling," Michael breathed, his relief palpable over the line. "I was so worried you'd think the flowers were too much. Was it too much? I can have them taken away if—"
"Michael, it looks like a greenhouse in here," you laughed softly, your voice instantly soothing his rising panic. "It’s lovely. And yes, I would love to go to dinner with you. But under one condition."
"Anything," he said instantly. "Whatever you want."
"No security walls, no flashing lights. Just you and me. Somewhere quiet."
But because Michael couldn't simply walk into a restaurant in Paris or Los Angeles without causing a riot, his version of a "quiet date" was spectacularly private. At exactly midnight, a tinted vehicle brought you to the gates of a historic, centuries-old botanical conservatory on the outskirts of the city. Michael had closed it out entirely for the night.
When you walked inside the massive glass dome, the air was warm and humid, thick with the scent of blooming orchids and damp earth. A single, small iron table was set up beneath a canopy of ancient ferns, illuminated entirely by thousands of tiny, warm fairy lights woven through the greenery.
Michael was standing by the table, dressed down in a simple black silk shirt, his hair loose and curling softly around his shoulders. He didn't have his glasses or his mask on. He looked entirely exposed, pale and fragile, but the moment his eyes landed on you, his face lit up like the sun.
"Welcome to my garden, Y/N," he said softly, stepping forward to gently take your hand, his touch warm and remarkably tender as he pressed a soft, old-school kiss to the back of your knuckles.
"I wanted you to see me where there are no cameras. Just the trees. They don't judge anyone."
That dinner blew your mind. As the hours drifted by, you deliberately maintained a gentle, protective perimeter around his heart, listening to him with a deep, intuitive empathy that he had clearly been starved of for decades. He spoke about his childhood, the bitter isolation of fame, and the absolute terror of raising his three babies in a world that wanted to tear him apart. He was still awkward at times—knocking his fork against his plate when he got too excited, stuttering over his words when he looked at you for too long—but you balanced his nervousness with a sharp, grounding wit that kept him anchored.
"You're staring, Mike," you teased softly, taking a sip of your wine.
"I can't help it," he whispered back, his dark eyes shining under the fairy lights as he reached across the small table, his long fingers gently brushing against yours. "You're just... you're so real, Y/N. You look at me like I’m a man. Just a man. I don't think anyone has looked at me like that since I was a little boy."
The true test of your connection didn't happen in a closed-out conservatory or a luxury suite. It happened inside the private living quarters of Neverland Ranch three months later.
Michael had finally invited you to meet his children, and he was a visible, pacing basket of nerves when your car pulled up to the main house. He met you at the door, his hands shaking as he took your coat.
"They’re a little wild today, Y/N, I'm so sorry," he apologized frantically, his eyes wide as he led you down the hallway. "Prince has a lot of energy, and Paris is being very quiet, and Blanket... Blanket has been crying all morning because of his colic. The nannies are trying, but he just wants me, and I—"
Before he could finish, you walked into the large, sunlit family room, and the reality of his daily struggle hit you like a physical wave.
Prince was running in circles around the sofa, making loud airplane noises, while Paris sat in the corner, holding a doll tightly to her chest, looking overwhelmed. In the center of the room, a frantic nanny was gently rocking a tiny, tiny infant wrapped in a yellow blanket. Little Blanket was only a few months old, his face flushed red as he wailed with a high-pitched, painful colic cry that echoed off the high ceilings.
Michael looked completely defeated. He looked like an exhausted single father who was drowning despite his millions, his shoulders slumped as he reached for the crying baby.
Your maternal instincts instantly kicked into gear. You didn't hesitate. You stepped right past Michael, offering the exhausted nanny a reassuring smile.
"May I?" you asked softly.
The nanny immediately handed the bundle over. You cradled the tiny, fragile baby against your chest, tucking his small head securely beneath your chin. You began to sway in a slow, rhythmic, grounding circle, pressing your palm firmly but gently against his tiny lower back to relieve the gas pain, while humming a low, soothing melody directly against his temple.
Within two minutes, Blanket’s frantic wails began to soften into quiet hiccups. Within five, his tiny, dark-haired head relaxed completely against your collarbone, his heavy eyelids fluttering shut as he fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.
The entire room went dead silent.
Prince stopped running, his eyes staring up at you in absolute awe. Paris slowly stood up from her corner, taking a few hesitant steps toward you, her little fingers reaching out to gently touch the fabric of your jeans.
You dropped to your knees on the plush carpet, keeping Blanket perfectly balanced against your chest, and looked up at the two toddlers with a warm, radiant smile.
"Hi, Prince. Hi, Paris," you whispered gently, keeping your voice a calm, protective anchor. "My name is Y/N. I hear you guys are the best helpers in the whole world. Do you think you can help me keep your little brother asleep?"
Paris nodded solemnly, a tiny, beautiful smile breaking across her face as she sat down right next to your knee, leaning her little shoulder against yours. Prince proudly sat on the floor in front of you, his airplane completely forgotten.
Michael stood in the archway, completely rooted to the spot. Tears were openly flowing down his cheeks, glistening under the warm California sunlight. He covered his mouth with his hand, his chest heaving with a silent, overwhelming sob of pure gratitude. He had spent his whole life looking for someone to protect him, but watching you effortlessly protect and heal his children with a fierce, quiet grace made him realize he had finally found his home.
You and Michael were inseparable. But the transition from the private sanctuary of the ranch to the brutal arena of the public eye was a terrifying hurdle for him. He was deeply traumatized by the media, and he was terrified that binding your name to his would destroy your career.
The moment of truth came at a high-profile, star-studded humanitarian gala in New York. The limousine was parked in the subterranean tunnels of the venue, the muffled roar of hundreds of flashing cameras and shouting paparazzi echoing from the red carpet above.
Michael sat in the dark interior of the car, his entire body visibly trembling. His breath was shallow, his long fingers gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles were white.
"Michael," you said softly, your voice a firm, unyielding anchor cutting through his panic.
You reached across the leather seat, slipping your hand into his. His palm was ice-cold and sweating, but the moment your fingers intertwined with his, he looked up at you, his dark eyes wide with a desperate, childlike fear.
"I'm scared, Y/N," he whispered, his voice cracking raw.
"They're going to scream at us. They're going to say horrible things. I don't want them to hurt you. I don't want my name to taint you."
You leaned forward, pressing your forehead gently against his, looking straight into his soul with a fierce, protective clarity. "Michael, look at me. Let them look. Let them scream. I know exactly who you are, and I am incredibly proud to be by your side. I am not going anywhere. Move your feet, pop star. We're doing this together."
Michael let out a long, shaky breath, your strength transferring directly into his veins. The fear in his eyes slowly solidified into a deep, regal resolve. He squeezed your hand back with incredible strength.
"Together," he murmured.
When the limo door opened, the wall of light from the flashbulbs was absolutely blinding. The noise was a deafening roar of shouting reporters. But Michael didn't drop his head. He stepped out of the car, pulled his shoulders back, and reached back to pull you out beside him. He locked his long fingers securely through yours, holding your hand high and tight against his chest as you walked down the red carpet hand-in-hand. It was a definitive, magnificent statement to the universe: he was no longer alone.
Facing the media was one thing; facing the legendary Jackson family estate at Hayvenhurst was an entirely different kind of theater. Michael was an anxious wreck during the drive to Encino, hovering over your outfit, checking your hair, and nervously repeating his siblings' names like a mantra.
"They have very... very big personalities, Y/N," Michael warned, his voice tight as you walked up the steps. "They can be a lot. If anyone makes you uncomfortable, you tell me immediately, okay? I'll take you right home."
"Michael, relax," you laughed gently, squeezing his arm. "I can handle a few Jacksons."
The front door opened, and the living room was a vibrant, chaotic symphony of noise. Marlon, Jackie, Tito, and Jermaine were gathered around the piano, talking loudly over each other, while Janet and La Toya were sitting on the sofa, trading sharp jokes. The entire room went instantly, suffocatingly quiet the moment you and Michael stepped through the threshold.
Michael immediately stepped a half-inch in front of you, his inner protective guard coming up as his siblings converged on you.
But you didn't flinch. You stepped out from behind his shoulder, your face split into a warm, deeply respectful smile. "Hi, everyone! Thank you so much for having me."
Jermaine was the first to step forward, his eyes scanning you critically as he adjusted his jacket. "So... you're the latest woman who managed to sweep him off his feet We've been hearing a lot about you, Y/N."
"Hopefully good things," you replied smoothly. "if he’s told you any secrets, he's a terrible liar, so don't believe him."
Marlon burst into a booming laugh, clapping Michael hard on the shoulder. "Oh, she’s funny!"
The rigid tension in Michael's shoulders instantly evaporated, a bright, delighted giggle escaping his lips.
The turning point of the evening happened closer to dinner. You had ducked into the large kitchen to offer your help, and found Mother Katherine standing over a massive pot of smothered greens, her face lined with the beautiful, heavy wisdom of a matriarch.
You walked up to the counter, rolling up your sleeves without being asked. "Mrs. Jackson, can I help you chop those onions?"
Katherine turned around, her quiet, searching eyes locking onto yours for a long, heavy beat. She looked into your eyes, reading the genuine depth and tenderness within your soul. Slowly, a beautiful, motherly smile softened her face. She stepped forward, ignoring the onions entirely, and reached out to take both of your hands in her warm, lined palms.
"Thank you, child," Katherine whispered, her voice thick with an emotional weight that made your throat tighten.
"I haven't seen my son's eyes look this bright since he was a teenager. He has carried a very heavy cross. Thank you for loving my boy."
You squeezed her hands back firmly, your voice soft but fiercely certain. "He’s safe with me, Mrs.Katherine. I promise you."
By winter, Michael knew he was going to ask you to be his wife. But the sheer gravity of the proposal had turned the global icon into a bumbling, frantic internal disaster. The brutal scrutiny surrounding his name had deeply fractured his self-esteem; deep down, he was genuinely terrified that asking you to legally bind your life to his was asking too much of you.
Desperate for a flawless execution, Michael called a highly confidential, top-secret family meeting in the back library of the Encino estate, gathering his siblings while you were out at a production fitting.
"It has to be the most magical thing ever," Michael paced frantically across the Persian rug, chewing furiously on his thumb, his hair a wild, curling mess. "I was thinking... maybe I can hire a private charter to fly us out somewhere at sunrise, and I'll have an orchestra playing on the plane? Or... or a hot air balloon that drops a million red rose petals over Neverland? What do you guys think?"
Marlon looked up from his plate, entirely unfazed by the theatrical display. "Mike, you are completely losing your mind. Just hand the girl the box and ask her. If she loves you, she’s not going to care about a hot air balloon. Plus, you know you’re terrible with heights. You’ll get up in that balloon, panic, and pass out before you even get the ring out."
"I’ve already done that before! " Michael hissed, his voice cracking in frustration as he turned to Jermaine. " 'Maine, please tell me you have a better idea." Jermaine shrugged. "I mean... you could write a symphony? Sing it to her by some pretty water? That always works for me."
"Too generic!" Michael whined, his hands flying into the air as he turned to his youngest sister with wide, desperate eyes. "Dunk, please. Help me. They’re completely useless." Janet sat back on the plush sofa, letting out a long, hearty laugh before shaking her head affectionately. "Mike, you are overthinking this because you're terrified she’s going to say no. Y/N isn't into the big, flashy stuff. She loves you. Just take her somewhere quiet, look her in the eye, and be the man she fell in love with."
Despite the chaotic intervention, Michael ended up following Janet's advice, though his nerves nearly got the better of him. He had driven you out to a quiet, secluded bluff overlooking the ocean in Malibu late on a Friday night. The air was crisp and chilly, the dark waves crashing violently against the rocks far below.
You were sitting on the hood of his vintage truck, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket, completely oblivious. "Michael, it’s cold as hell out here. Why are we staring at the dark ocean at one in the morning?"
Michael didn't answer. He was standing in front of you, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. Suddenly, he let out a sharp, ragged breath that sounded dangerously close to a sob. He stepped forward, his long arms reaching out to gently catch your wrists, pulling you off the hood until your feet hit the ground, flush against his chest.
"Michael?" you murmured, your brow furrowing in instant concern as you felt the violent, frantic thudding of his heart against your ribs. He was shaking from head to toe. "Are you okay? Is something wrong?"
"No, everything’s…everything’s fine," Michael whispered, his voice incredibly raw, cracking with a deep, suffocating emotion that made your breath hitch.
Slowly, the he dropped to one knee right there in the damp grass at your feet. He pulled his hands from his pockets, holding a small, black velvet box. When he snapped it open, a flawless, emerald-cut diamond ring caught the pale moonlight, gleaming with a blinding brilliance.
But his face was completely covered in tears. He looked up at you, his dark eyes wide, entirely stripped of his legendary armor, exposing a raw, bleeding vulnerability that broke your heart.
"Y/N... I am a very broken man," Michael whispered, his breath hitching as the tears spilled over his eyelashes.
"The world has torn me apart, and my name carries a very heavy storm.
But the day you walked into my life, you brought the sun back.
You saved my babies. You held my hand when I was shaking.
I am so scared to ask you this because I don't want to drag you into my darkness...
but I don't want to live another day without you. Will you marry me, beautiful?
Will you be my queen?"
You stood completely frozen, your breath caught in your throat as your own tears instantly spilled over your lashes. The sheer, devastating beauty of his honesty completely stripped the world away.
You didn't answer with words. You dropped to your knees right into the dirt in front of him, throwing your arms fiercely around his neck. You buried your face into the crook of his shoulder, holding him so tightly you could feel his soul shifting against yours.
"Yes," you sobbed into his skin, your voice a fierce, unyielding promise that cut through the sound of the ocean waves. "Yes, Michael. A million times, yes. I am not afraid of your storm. I love you."
Michael let out a loud, shuddering cry of pure relief, wrapping his long arms around your waist and lifting you right off the ground as you both knelt there in the grass, holding you against his heart like you were the single most precious treasure in the universe.
The wedding, held on a crisp, golden afternoon in the early spring of '03, was the ultimate, seamless fortress of the life you had fought so hard to build. It wasn't a media circus; there were no cameras, no reporters, and no uninvited guests. The entire valley estate had been heavily fortified by security, creating a private, sacred sanctuary of pure love.
As the strings of a live seventy-piece orchestra swelled, playing a breathtaking, sweeping arrangement, the heavy oak doors of the private chapel swung open.
You stood in the entryway, a magnificent, jaw-dropping vision in a structured, high-fashion white silk gown. The bodice was perfectly tailored, the long, dramatic veil cascading down your back like a waterfall of lace. In your hands, you held a simple bunch of white roses.
At the end of the candlelit aisle stood Michael.
He looked absolutely striking in a crisp, custom black tuxedo, his hair neatly tied back into a sleek ponytail, his dark eyes fixed entirely onto yours. The exhausted, depressed single father was completely gone; in his place stood a man radiating a profound, majestic, and completely unbroken peace.
Standing right beside him as his proud little best man was Prince, looking incredibly sharp in his matching mini-tuxedo. Paris stood on your side as the flower girl, her hair decorated with flowers that matched yours perfectly, her small hands holding the basket with immense pride. Sitting in the front row in Mother Katherine's lap was Blanket, his wide, dark eyes watching the ceremony in quiet wonder.
When your father placed your hand into Michael's at the altar, the physical connection was instantaneous. His palm was no longer cold, sweating, or trembling. It was warm, perfectly steady, and completely certain.
The minister spoke the ancient, sacred vows, but you and Michael didn't hear the words; you were simply looking into each other's eyes, a silent, profound conversation passing between you. We made it.
"I do," Michael whispered, his voice echoing through the chapel with a ringing, powerful clarity that left no room for doubt.
"I do," you replied, your voice fierce and unyielding.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the minister smiled. "Michael, you may now kiss your bride."
Michael didn't wait a single second. He stepped forward, his long, warm hands sliding up to securely frame your face, his fingers tangling into your veil as he leaned down and pressed a deep, passionate, and incredibly sweet kiss to your lips.
The chapel erupted into a beautiful, deafening roar of cheers and applause. The Jackson brothers were shouting, Janet was crying, and your own family was on their feet, the two worlds seamlessly blending into one massive, roaring tapestry of joy.
The moment Michael pulled back, his eyes shining with absolute victory, Prince and Paris didn't care about protocol. They broke away from their positions and ran forward, throwing their small arms around both of your legs, tackling the two of you into a messy, laughing family embrace right at the altar.
Michael immediately dropped to his knees, pulling the children into the space between you, before reaching up to wrap his long arm around your waist, pulling you down into the center of his world.
Later that night, he pressed his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your cheek as he whispered into the sweet chaos.
"Thank you for keeping me grounded, my love."
You looked down at the beautiful, laughing faces of the children and the radiant, healed face of the man who held your hand so securely. The road behind you had been a battlefield of depression, isolation, and fear—but as you squeezed his hand back, you knew the slow burn had been entirely worth it. The King had found his queen.
He was happy.
i didn’t include it because i didn’t feel like smut would fit in here but reader was 100% unknowingly pregnant during the wedding.
summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detached—while quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.
notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchner—so here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (i’m so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.
word count: 19001
MONDAY 9:25AM
Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.
Not because your colleagues are nosy—no, they’re just… perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesn’t work on all of them—you glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a book—at least it works on most of them.
At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.
Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.
Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. “You’re wearing a skirt.”
You cross your legs and lean back. “Excellent observation, Reid.”
“It’s impractical,” he says simply. “Especially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. You’re significantly more likely to trip while running.”
You roll your eyes. “Good thing I’m not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.”
“Ignore boy genius, baby girl,” Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. “You look good.”
You flash him a grin. “See? Somebody appreciates me.”
Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. “Interesting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotch’s proximity.”
Your stomach flips. “Spence.”
He lifts one shoulder. “What? He’s not listening.”
You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.
“That’s not the point, Spencer,” you mutter, turning back to him. “You need to—”
The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks in—files tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.
“Morning,” he says, dropping the files on the table. “Hope everyone had a good weekend.”
Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”
“Yeah,” Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. “I was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.”
“That’s because you alphabetise your paperwork,” you point out.
She gives you a look. “I enjoy being proficient.”
“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair “some of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.”
Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. “Ooh, look at you. Was there a man involved?”
You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. “I’m choosing to plead the fifth.”
Morgan points across the table. “That means yes.”
“Or,” Reid says without looking up from his book, “it means she enjoys making people speculate.”
“Aw, Spence,” you tease. “Don’t sound so bitter.”
He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threatening—because he knows what you’re doing. It’s what you always do. It’s how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.
You perform.
You swipe through dating apps, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the team—Reid more than the rest, because he’s your scapegoat... and your best friend.
He’s the only one who can see through the charade. Not because he’s emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:
Hotch is the secret you’re trying so hard to hide.
Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanation—harmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attention—they won’t notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.
Hotch clears his throat. “Well, lucky for all of you, it’s a quiet week.”
Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.
“No active cases as of this morning,” Hotch continues. “Which means we’ll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyone’s apparently been neglecting.”
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.
“I’m bored already,” Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.
Hotch ignores him. “We’ve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, I’ll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.”
Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”
“Garcia,” Hotch continues, “the Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.”
Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. “But I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasn’t supposed to be due for another fortnight.”
Morgan blinks. “You colour-code your schedule?”
“Obviously,” Garcia says. “How else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?”
Reid straightens. “Technically, organising information activates the same reward pathways as—”
“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.
Reid frowns slightly. “I was just going to say gambling.”
You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.
Not the team. You.
Your stomach twists.
That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldn’t make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. You’re on the receiving end of it often enough—whenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.
Yet somehow, you still feel like you can’t breathe until his gaze finally shifts.
“Moving on,” he says evenly, “JJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.”
He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focused—but it’s hard. It’s hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you can’t help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.
His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what he’s actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when you—
“The briefing ended three minutes ago,” Reid says.
You blink hard. “What?”
He closes his notebook with a sigh. “The meeting’s over. You can stop internally monologuing now.”
You frown. “I’m not—”
He gives you a look.
“Ugh,” you groan. “You’re so annoying.”
You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but you’re not surprised that he’s right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.
Everyone else is already settled at their desks—keyboards clicking, pens scribbling—and there’s a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12–18. – Hotch.
You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.
Reid snorts. “You know most people throw those away, right?”
You glance sideways at him. “I don’t want to forget the page numbers.”
He hums. “Sure.”
“You know,” you say, turning your chair to properly face him, “you’re being particularly judgemental today. What’s your problem?”
He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.
“I’m experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,” he says plainly. “And repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well—you’re increasing my irritability.”
“Exactly,” he says, already turning back to his computer.
You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comeback—but your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for what’s shaping up to be a very boring Monday.
The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviour—until forty-eight hours before her death.
In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars she’d never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollars’ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.
To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdown—an impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you can’t come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled woman—checking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.
Only there isn’t enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.
You sigh. “Reid.”
“Hm?”
“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”
Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesn’t stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files you’ve got carefully laid out.
“Oops,” he says absently, pushing the pens aside.
You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.
“The behavioural shift feels manufactured,” you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. “But there’s enough legitimate stressors here that I can’t tell if I’m forcing a pattern because it’s too clean.”
Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.
“You’re focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,” he says. “Stress explains escalation. It doesn’t explain inconsistency.”
You frown slightly.
“She suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.” He taps the timeline. “She still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isn’t usually selective.”
Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”
Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right.”
“What’s she right about?”
You nearly jump at the sound of Hotch’s voice—low and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.
“She thinks the behavioural shift is staged,” Reid says. “And I agree.”
He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thigh—and suddenly, you can’t breathe.
He’s close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.
“It’s too compartmentalised,” Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. “Real behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a person’s routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawal—something.”
Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongue—then flips the page.
Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too small—but you can’t move. Not with Hotch’s hand still on the back of your chair.
“But this is curated,” Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. “The impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.”
Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. “You caught that?”
You clear your throat. “I just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.”
“Her behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,” Reid says. “I can’t find a flaw in it.”
Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.
“Good girl,” he says absently.
Your entire nervous system short-circuits.
“Keep it up,” he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.
You don’t say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.
Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.”
You finally blink. “What?”
“Because the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraint—especially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.”
You frown. “What are you—”
“But the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you don’t actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.”
Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”
“You have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.”
“Reid.”
“For example,” he goes on, ignoring you completely, “you spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotch—which likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.”
You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”
“You don’t react this strongly to older men generally,” he continues. “You react strongly to Hotch because he’s emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, and—”
He pauses, tilting his head.
“Very obviously your type.”
You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.
Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report he’s typing. JJ’s desk is empty, as usual—she’s probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.
Your gaze cuts back to Reid. “You are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t matter if they did.”
Your brows pull together. “What’s that mean?”
“You’re good at redirecting attention,” he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. “You’re less good at hiding physiological responses.”
Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.
“Whatever,” you mutter. “It’s warm in here.”
Reid glances around the bullpen. “It’s sixty-eight degrees.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.
You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, there’s a brand-new stack of files on your desk—only this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.
“Hotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,” Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. “Said he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.”
“Great,” you mutter, dropping into your chair.
Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.
You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath it—written quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. – Hotch.
Your stomach flips.
God. That’s pathetic.
You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.
The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJ’s the first to head out—not long after five—taking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that he’s got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.
Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, who’s been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.
“You coming?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.
“Not yet,” you reply, blinking tiredly. “Hotch needs these by morning.”
Reid tilts his head. “Want me to wait?”
You wave a hand. “Nah, go ahead. I’ll get security to walk me to my car.”
“Alright,” he says, already turning away. “Just remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.”
You glare at his back. “I’m reporting you to HR.”
“You’d have to explain the context,” he calls over his shoulder.
You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.
With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didn’t miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired state—but you’re used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.
You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotch’s note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.
And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.
Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologne—enough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.
You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.
There’s still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater he’d been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly he’d been called away.
It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.
You adjust the files until they’re perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind you—the way it’d been before you stepped inside.
It doesn’t take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until you’re safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.
Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leia—your cat, who’s very unimpressed by your late arrival—take a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but you’ve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you don’t get to them soon, you’ll start to feel guilty.
You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldn’t have set up your own profile if you’d really wanted to.
No—this profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.
One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while you’d been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.
Hotch hadn’t contributed to the conversation, but you’d known he was listening.
That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.
The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.
Twelve notifications.
You click on the ‘messages’ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and you’ve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messages—ones you’d seen pop up on your phone but couldn’t be bothered to engage with over the weekend.
After all, you’re not actually looking to date anyone.
But one of the messages catches your eye.
DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person who’s either very funny or very mean. I’m willing to risk it.
You snort, then type out a reply.
You: Unfortunately for you, those traits aren’t mutually exclusive.
Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.
“Hey, sassy girl,” you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.
Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.
You roll your eyes. “Alright. Sorry for loving you.”
You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.
Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.
DCRunner00: That’s probably the best possible answer you could’ve given.
DCRunner00: So what’s your worst personality trait? I feel like that’s more interesting than hobbies.
That answer comes a little too easily.
You: Workaholic. You?
DCRunner00: I get bored easily.
DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment.
You: Sounds like a public safety issue.
DCRunner00: Depends who you ask.
DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. It’s late.
You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.
You shake your head, typing quickly.
You: Yeah, I should.
You: Night, Running Man.
Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.
TUESDAY 9:50AM
“Morgan, you’re with me at district court this afternoon,” Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. “The defence attorney’s pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so we’ll need to review our timeline before the hearing.”
He’s wearing a grey suit today.
You can never think straight when he’s wearing a grey suit.
Morgan sighs dramatically. “Nothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.”
Hotch ignores him completely.
“JJ, I want the media requests filtered through Strauss’s office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when you’re done.”
He glances once around the table.
“If anything urgent comes in, you’ll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.”
Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.
The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you don’t quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, who’s watching the screen with quiet concentration.
Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your boss’ ass as he walks out of the room.
“You should probably blink.”
Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. “I’ll blink when I want to blink.”
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know he’s fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviour—but thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.
Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app they’re both obsessed with.
You’re just about to pass Hotch’s office door when—you hear your name.
You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.
Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotch’s office.
You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. “Sir?”
“How late were you here last night?” he asks.
You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”
His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. “That’s late.”
“Morgan said you needed them done by the morning.”
“I didn’t mean first thing,” he says, smoothing the end of his tie. “You could’ve finished the rest before lunch.”
You blink. “Oh.”
His gaze holds yours for a second too long.
“You don’t need to stay late to impress me.”
Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. “Oh—uh—good to know.”
He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.
“Still,” he says, lower this time. “I appreciated it. The files, and… everything else.”
Your breath catches softly in your throat.
“Anytime, sir,” you manage.
He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.
You don’t need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he won’t admit it because he doesn’t want the team to think he’s shutting them out. He’s just more comfortable in private—it helps him focus.
By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.
You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.
Two new messages from DCRunner00.
DCRunner00: Running Man?
DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.
You can’t help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.
You: Better than ‘Workaholic’.
You: You read Stephen King?
“Hey, you busy?”
You glance over at Reid. “Aren’t we all?”
He tilts his head. “You’re on your phone.”
“I could be working.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Good,” he says, shuffling the files on his desk. “Hotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.”
You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. “And by ‘us’ you mean...?”
“I could use your help.”
“Fine,” you mutter, setting your phone down.
He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossi’s few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and maps—everything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.
“Where do you want to start?”
“I’m trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,” he says, “but half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns don’t align.”
You nod. “Okay, walk me through where it stops making sense.”
Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. You’ve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?
“It’s physically impossible,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.
Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”
You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”
“Well, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.”
You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. “If you know so much, then why can’t you figure this out?”
He still doesn’t turn away from his screen. “I will. Eventually.”
You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.
“No, listen to me carefully.”
Both you and Reid glance up automatically.
Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.
“You don’t need to explain the problem again,” he says evenly. “You need to tell me how you’re fixing it.”
He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.
“Then prioritise the transfer first,” he says. “If the paperwork isn’t filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.”
He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.
“No,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. “I’m not asking you to stay late. I’m telling you this needs to be finished tonight.”
Your stomach flips.
This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.
“Good,” he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. “Call me when it’s done.”
Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.
You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. “Do you think he talks you through it?”
“Probably,” Reid says, turning back to his screen. “High-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.”
You go still. You hadn’t actually expected an answer.
“Someone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,” Reid continues. “The immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.”
Your face heats.
“Especially because he’s not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. He’d want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.”
Oh my God.
“And honestly,” Reid goes on, “people with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investment—” He pauses briefly. “Which means he’d probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking he’d—”
He stops.
Then slowly turns toward you.
“...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didn’t I?”
You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. “Just a couple.”
He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.
You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now you’re hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throat—
Fortunately, it doesn’t take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what he’s saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.
You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. It’s a thousand times better than break room coffee.
When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. You’re not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.
DCRunner00: I’ve read a few.
DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?
You type your reply as you step out of the building.
You: Work, mostly.
You: And sleep.
By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messages—but you can’t reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.
“Thanks, pretty girl,” Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.
You smile back. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”
Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.
DCRunner00: What’s your schedule even like?
DCRunner00: You strike me as an “answers emails at midnight” type of person.
You: Nah. That’s my boss.
You: My schedule is chaos, though.
“Thanks,” Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.
You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotch’s office. You can see through the window that he’s not on the phone—for once—so you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.
He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. “I didn’t ask for coffee.”
“I know,” you say quickly. “But it’s almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didn’t answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldn’t, by the way.”
He straightens, brows drawing tighter.
“And I know you’ve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and you’re going to try to leave early, but someone’s definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so you’ll only have enough time to get to the courthouse—not enough time to stop for coffee.”
You set the cup down in front of him.
“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”
He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.
“That’s some pretty solid profiling, Agent.”
Your face heats instantly.
“Well,” you say, backing slowly toward the door, “maybe now you owe me two.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but it’s enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You can’t help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.
You spend the rest of the day at Reid’s desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they won’t be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossi—then you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.
Which is also when you finally check your messages again.
DCRunner00: Chaos how?
You type a quick reply while you wait for your car’s AC to warm up.
You: Long hours.
You: Weird hours.
You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.
Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.
Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. She’s always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry food—but apparently that isn’t good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.
You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.
DCRunner00: Ah. So you’re one of those people.
You: Rude.
He replies almost immediately.
DCRunner00: Accurate, though?
You: Unfortunately.
You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.
Ping!
DCRunner00: What do you actually do?
You hesitate. It’s not like you can just say you’re in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents can’t just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. It’s dangerous.
You: Mostly admin.
You: Governmental stuff.
You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.
You’re not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.
DCRunner00: Sounds boring.
DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?
You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.
You: Sort of.
You: But if my boss calls, I answer.
He replies instantly again.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked.
You: I think I’d get bored otherwise.
You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.
DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy.
You: Probably.
What about you? What do you do?
You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. There’s nothing you’re really interested in watching—since you don’t usually have the time to keep up with any shows—so you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.
He’s already replied by the time you log in.
DCRunner00: Run.
DCRunner00: Read.
DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally.
You: That sounds made up.
You open your protein bar.
DCRunner00: It mostly is.
DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?
You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogs—whatever makes them seem interesting—but this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.
You type out a vague response.
You: Sometimes.
You: Occupational hazard, I guess.
DCRunner00: And you always answer?
You: Pretty much.
You: He’d only call if it mattered.
His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.
DCRunner00: Hm.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.
You almost choke on your tea.
That’s... weird.
Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but he’s the one asking all the questions about your job. It’s a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around him—in more ways than you care to admit.
You: Jealous already, Running Man?
DCRunner00: Should I be?
You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.
You: I think you’re spending too much time talking to strangers online.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: You still replied, though.
“Okay,” you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. “That’s enough.”
You: I’m going to sleep.
You: Try not to spiral while I’m gone.
His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.
DCRunner00: No promises.
WEDNESDAY 8:10AM
“Come on,” you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.
You’re a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didn’t even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messages—and decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.
“Hey—woah.” Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. “You’re early.”
You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.
“Is Garcia in yet?”
He frowns slightly. “I think so. Why?”
You pull your laptop out of your bag.
“I just—I need her.”
You’re already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. You’re just about to round the corner toward the elevators when—
“Hey—” Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. “Slow down. You alright?”
His hand is hovering near your waist—not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.
You blink up at him. “Sorry. Yeah. Uh—totally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.”
His brows pull together slightly.
“Alright, well, Garcia’s not going anywhere,” he says evenly. “Take a breath.”
You nod slowly, already stepping around him.
“Right,” you mutter. “Breathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.”
You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth lift—but then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.
It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garcia’s lair and burst through the door without warning.
She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. “Sweet mother of encryption, knock first!”
“Sorry,” you say, breathless. “I need you.”
“Well, obviously,” she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. “I’m the backbone of this entire operation.”
You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.
“You cannot judge me for what I’m about to show you.”
She glances up, brows lifting. “Oh. So this is serious?”
You grimace. “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Slightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me what’s happened.”
You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.
“You remember the dating profile you set up for me?”
She nods.
“Alright, so, I won’t lie, I haven’t really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When I’ve got time, you know? And I don’t have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldn’t reply all that quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.”
You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.
“Nothing really felt out of place until—well, he wouldn’t talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, or—I guess—lack of schedule.”
You wince.
“So now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I don’t know.”
You hesitate.
“But then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.”
She squints at the screen.
DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.
“Mmm. Nope. Don’t love that,” she says, shaking her head. “That is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.”
You sink back in your chair. “That’s what I thought.”
She starts scrolling back through the messages.
“Have you told Hotch?”
“Nope.”
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “You answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.”
“Because the answer is no,” you say firmly, leaning forward again.
“Mm-hm.” She keeps scrolling. “Okay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.”
You groan, dragging both hands over your face.
“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”
Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”
Garcia gives you a long look.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”
“Garcia.”
“I’m just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, we’d all be making faces.”
You point at the screen. “Focus.”
“Right. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.”
Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Don’t block him yet.”
You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”
“Neither do I, babycakes, but if he’s routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.”
You frown. “In English?”
She gives you another look. “Timestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips up—basic digital stalking fun.”
“Oh, of course,” you say sarcastically. “Normal stuff.”
“For me, it is normal.” She points toward the laptop. “Now reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.”
Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.
You: I thought I told you not to spiral.
He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.
DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke.
DCRunner00: Mostly.
She stares at the screen. “Okay, I officially don’t like him.”
You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. “I feel sick.”
Garcia’s expression softens slightly. “Maybe you should tell—”
“No.”
She sighs quietly. “Okay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?”
You nod.
“Good. Don’t overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.” Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. “I’ll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.”
You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.
“You’re the best, Pen.”
“I know.” She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. “Now go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.”
By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboard—too anxious to have it with you during the meeting—then quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.
Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.
“Hey,” you mutter as you drop down next to him.
His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”
You nod. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll explain later.”
Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterday’s court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.
You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. You’re pretty sure it’s the first briefing in years where you haven’t spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notes—and when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.
“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.
You glance at him. “Why?”
“You didn’t look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.”
You roll your eyes. “Spence—”
“Something must be seriously wrong.”
You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.
“Okay,” you say quietly, turning back to Reid. “I’m having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.”
His brows shoot up. “A guy—”
“Online,” you add quickly.
He tilts his head. “I’m confused again.”
You sigh. “Remember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?”
“You mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?”
You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”
“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”
“Well,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now it’s gotten... weird. So, I’m getting Garcia to look into it.”
His forehead creases. “Have you told—”
“No.”
“Maybe you should—”
“I said no.”
“Alright.” He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m dropping it. It’s just…”
You narrow your eyes at him.
“Well, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions don’t escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.”
You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.
“However,” he adds, “cyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.”
You stare at him.
“In cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.”
He pauses, frowning faintly.
“That was supposed to be reassuring.”
“…Thanks, Reid,” you mutter, turning away from him slowly. “Now I feel so much better.”
When you get back to your desk, you decide it’s time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to type—knowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.
You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.
You: You’re weird.
He replies just as fast as usual.
DCRunner00: You disappear a lot.
You: Workaholic, remember.
You: I told you my schedule was chaos.
You’re about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops up—from Garcia.
Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why you’re still single.
You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.
You: Trust me, that’s not the reason.
Garcia: So there IS a reason?
You: Shh. I’m working.
Garcia: Boo!
You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.
It doesn’t work.
Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notification—but there’s nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if he’s ever gone quiet on you before—but he hasn’t. Not really. So you type another message.
You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?
It’s a calculated move. If he’s paying attention to response patterns—and at this point you’re pretty sure he is—then following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think you’re pulling away.
If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.
An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesn’t feel right—which keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, you’ve got three notifications.
One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.
DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me?
DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.
Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”
You immediately call Garcia back.
She answers on half a ring. “Are you wearing blue?”
“You saw me this morning.”
“I can’t remember,” she says. “Are you?”
You drag a hand through your hair. “Yes.”
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You’ve got to tell—”
“No.”
“Are you insane?”
“Maybe, but—” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “Okay, just—hear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. It’s a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.”
Garcia goes quiet for a second.
“And does this unsub know you work in a government building?”
“Don’t call him that,” you snap. “And—well, kind of. I didn’t tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.”
“I swear to God,” she mutters, “if I have to identify your body next week, I’m going to kill you.”
You press your free hand against your forehead.
“You won’t,” you say firmly. “Alright? We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”
Garcia scoffs loudly.
“Seriously,” you insist. “It could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.”
The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.
“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”
“Because I don’t want to bother him,” you say quickly. “We’ve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I don’t want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.”
She sighs again, louder this time. “Fine. I won’t go to Hotch.”
Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”
“On one condition,” she adds. “I’m sleeping over tonight.”
You nearly choke. “What?”
“Non-negotiable.”
“Penelope, that’s insane.”
“No,” Garcia says firmly, “what’s insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.”
“He is not stalking me,” you protest, keeping your voice low.
“Mm-hm.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“And yet,” Garcia says, “if you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.”
You frown. “…Morally complicit?”
“Accessory to murder-adjacent,” she corrects. “And my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. We’re having a slumber party.”
You let out a long sigh. “Okay. Fine.”
She hums, satisfied.
“I need to reply to him again.”
“Well, don’t ask me,” she mutters. “You’re the one who’s apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.”
You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”
“Mm-hm. And just so we’re clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.”
“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”
“Absolutely not.”
You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. Romantic comedies it is.”
“Good,” Garcia says firmly. “Now hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotch’s office myself.”
You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You don’t have to think too hard about what to type. You don’t want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.
You: Lucky guess.
The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.
At about three o’clock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while she’s stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory he’s working through out loud—which means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotch’s voice through the wall.
When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them off—and for the first time in God knows how long, you don’t stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.
By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.
At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Pack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.”
You snort softly. “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”
You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.
“See who soon?” Reid asks.
You glance at him. “Garcia.”
He tilts his head.
“She’s staying over tonight.”
His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”
“Girl’s night,” you interrupt, eyes widening. “That’s all.”
His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”
You scoff. “About me? Never.”
You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.
“Really?” Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. “Because you’ve spent most of the day staring at your phone like it’s a bomb, you spent most of Rossi’s profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.”
You pause mid-motion.
“Also,” he continues, “you usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerning—”
“Okay!” you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Good talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.”
He doesn’t say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. You’re just about to press the button for the elevator when—
“Agent.”
You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isn’t frustrated or disapproving—it’s curious.
You force a small smile. “Sir.”
His eyes move over your face briefly. “You alright?”
You nod once. “Of course.”
He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. “You sure?”
Your breath catches.
He’s close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.
“You’ve seemed distracted today,” he says.
You swallow hard. “Uh—no. No. Sorry, I just—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else—press harder, maybe—but then seems to think better of it.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Get some rest tonight.”
Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.
You don’t move immediately. You can’t. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.
“Hello?” Garcia calls from behind you. “I cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.”
You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”
You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then—
“So, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason you’re still single…”
You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”
“I’m just saying,” she continues lightly, “unless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, I’m starting to develop theories.”
You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then it’s only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.
And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until they’ve pulled it apart completely.
The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat she’s ever met that doesn’t like her.
“Leia hates everyone,” you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Even me.”
Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.
Once she’s satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.
“Have you seen his latest messages?” she asks.
You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. “No.”
She opens your laptop and logs into the dating site—because apparently she knows your password now.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: Or maybe you’re just easier to read than you think.
You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like you’re overanalysing this.
You: Or maybe I’m just not trying so hard to be mysterious.
Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far she’s managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still can’t lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she can’t—apparently that part would actually be pretty easy—but because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isn’t an official investigation.
“The second I start pulling the fun federal strings,” Garcia says, typing furiously, “there’s paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.”
You lean against the counter. “We don’t want that.”
“Not yet.” Her expression sharpens slightly. “Also, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, there’s always a chance he’s monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someone’s looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.”
Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”
You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.
DCRunner00: Refreshing
DCRunner00: Most people hide too much.
You: Depends what they’re trying to hide.
DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide?
You: Besides the fact that I’m exhausted? Nothing.
DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight.
You: Long day.
DCRunner00: I noticed.
You: How was yours?
You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.
Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.
“Night, Pen,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Thanks again... for everything.”
“Night, gorgeous,” she calls, peering over the back of the couch. “Wake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides it’s my time.”
You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.
THURSDAY 6:45AM
You’re not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasn’t gone quiet for this long before—but if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... it’s not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.
Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.
The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last night—which is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his mother’s basement, stalking women online.
Garcia isn’t entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAU’s next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until you’re both back at the office.
“Hey,” Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. “You haven’t been murdered.”
You frown slightly. “Good morning to you too, Spence.”
Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. “Uh—why are we getting murdered?”
Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. “Because she’s potentially being cyberstalked by a—”
“Oh, wow, look at the time,” you interrupt, glaring at Reid. “Wouldn’t it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.”
Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. “Cyberstalked?”
“Nobody is cyberstalking anybody,” you say as you drop into your chair. “And nobody’s getting murdered—but great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.”
Morgan chuckles quietly. “Damn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.”
Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.
“Technically,” Reid says, “she only implied it by refusing to answer Garcia’s question during Monday morning’s briefing.”
“Ah.” Morgan leans back in his chair. “I knew this was a drought issue.”
You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”
“Statistically speaking,” Reid adds, “people experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.”
Morgan looks at him. “Man, just say she needs to get laid.”
“Oh my God,” you snap. “I do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very much—and frankly I think it’s deeply inappropriate that you’re all this invested in whether or not I’m orgasming regularly.”
Reid tilts his head. “You’re having sex?”
Morgan’s brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him when—
Someone clears their throat behind you.
Heat crawls violently up your neck—but you don’t turn around. You can’t.
“Briefing room. Five minutes,” Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. “JJ’s got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.”
Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, trying—and failing—to smother the strangled sound of laughter.
Very slowly, you turn in your chair.
Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it—something suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.
“Be right there, sir,” you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.
Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.
You want to die.
The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.
“Oh, you are never recovering from that,” Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.
Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Baby girl, that was painful to watch.”
You drop your head into your hands.
“You somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,” Reid says thoughtfully.
“I hate you all,” you mumble into your palms.
You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.
Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperative—which Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.
It’s not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isn’t much you wouldn’t give to pick the sociopath’s brains. One hour with him feels dangerously short—that is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.
“We don’t have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,” Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. “I’ll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.”
Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the room—but you don’t move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You don’t even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.
But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.
“You alright?” Reid asks, lingering beside you.
You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. “Yep. Just thinking about how I’ll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.”
He shrugs. “Hotch probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”
You glance up at him hopefully.
“Morgan definitely is, though.”
You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.
The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then there’s a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.
It isn’t until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, there’s one new notification in your inbox.
From: Aaron Hotchner
Subject: Wallace Interview
You’re with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.
Your stomach flips.
“Wow,” Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. “He picked you pretty quickly.”
You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”
“I’m just saying, he usually deliberates longer.”
You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.
“You and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,” Reid adds.
You turn back to him, frowning.
He tilts his head. “That sounded more suggestive than I intended.”
You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful he’s being when your phone buzzes twice against your desk—like it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.
You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.
Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.
You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.
DCRunner00: [Image attachment]
DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?
The image is of your apartment building. It’s grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the street—but your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.
Ice floods your bloodstream.
You stop breathing.
“Is that... your apartment?” Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.
You don’t answer him. You can’t.
The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.
Until—
“I’m done!” Garcia’s voice cuts through the static. “I can’t do this anymore!”
She’s marching right toward you, your laptop—that she’d still been monitoring—tucked under one arm.
Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”
Morgan straightens in his chair. “What’s happening?”
“Hotch’s office,” Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. “Now.”
You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.
Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.
“What’s going on?”
His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when he’s trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to you—and something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.
“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.
Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.
Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.
Then he looks back up—right at you—and something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.
“Who sent this?”
Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.
It’s funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to you—something real—that’s when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe it’s because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides they’re emotionally invested in you.
Or maybe it’s just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didn’t do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourself—and your friend—in danger.
“Get everyone in the briefing room,” Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. “Now.”
Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reid’s wrist—making a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.
Hotch’s eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.
“Reid,” he says. “Print the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachments—all of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.”
You swallow hard. “The—the entire message history?”
“Yes,” Hotch says simply. “Every message.”
Could this day get any worse?
Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.
“Okay,” Prentiss says. “Where do we start?”
“Victimology,” Morgan answers immediately—then he glances at you. “Sorry, baby girl.”
You wave him off. “Reid’s been profiling me all week. Go for it.”
There’s a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. He’s sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like he’s trying very hard not to look directly at you.
“We need to be careful building a victimology this early,” he says evenly. “Especially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.”
Reid tilts his head. “Normally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.” He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. “Statistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.”
You grimace. “Fantastic.”
“Most victims also know their stalkers,” Reid continues. “Approximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.”
“Okay,” JJ says carefully, looking toward you. “Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified against—anything like that?”
You snort quietly. “Does every criminal I’ve ever interviewed count?”
The room goes still for half a second.
“Wait,” Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. “Actually, that makes sense.”
Hotch’s eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.
“This escalation happened fast. Less than a week. That’s not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratch—that’s somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.”
“Or angry,” Morgan adds.
“Exactly,” Prentiss says. “He doesn’t lash out until she has Garcia over. That’s jealousy. Possessiveness.”
You sink lower in your chair.
“And he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,” Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. “That’s territorial behaviour. He’s fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.”
“Not the only one fixating on him,” Reid murmurs beside you.
You elbow him immediately.
“Ow.”
Hotch glances up sharply. “Something to add, Reid?”
Reid straightens. “Uh—no. No, I think Rossi covered it.”
Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly, like he knows there’s something he’s missing, but he lets it go.
“Garcia,” he says instead, “tell me you found something useful.”
“Oh, I found things,” Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. “Deeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.”
Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing ‘internet goblin’ across the table to JJ.
“Okay, so—profile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.”
Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”
“Sloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,” she says. “And before anybody asks, yes, I’m already pulling traffic cams.”
Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.
“Morgan, Prentiss—start canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if there’ve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaints—anything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.”
Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.
“I want to help,” you say suddenly. “This is my mess, let me fix it.”
“You can help,” he says evenly, “by going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
You open your mouth to argue.
“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.
“I’ll take her,” Reid offers immediately.
“No,” Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. “You go with Morgan and Prentiss.”
Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.
“I’m taking her home.”
The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.
Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, who’s already in full FBI investigation mode—her screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender you’ve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions you’d long since filed away as routine.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isn’t until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.
Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his office—files in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.
“Ready?” he asks, stopping beside your desk.
You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.
“Yep,” you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.
Hotch drives. You don’t even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. It’s not like you haven’t been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.
Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t asked for directions the whole way here.
“Wait,” he mutters before climbing out of the car.
He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbelt—your hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzy—but once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.
He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, you’ve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.
“I—uh—wasn’t really expecting company,” you say as you push the door open. “Sorry.”
The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trill—probably wondering why you’re home before dark for the first time in years.
Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. “You have a cat.”
You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. “Is that really the most surprising thing you’ve learned about me today?”
He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. “It’s unexpected.”
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.
Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinner—until she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.
Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.
“Oh, she doesn’t really like people,” you say quickly. “So don’t take it personally if she—”
Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.
Your eyes go wide.
Traitor.
Hotch’s mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.
Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?
He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.
You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances briefly—thank God—into your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.
The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. You’ve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different ways—just not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.
Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.
If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, he’s going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, he’s going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, he’s going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstand—and then you’ll actually have to fake your own death.
Because you’ve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. It’s easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.
But this?
This feels dangerously close to being found out.
The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.
Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isn’t unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.
Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you can’t really help it. You’re strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.
And Leia, unfortunately—but not unsurprisingly—remains no help whatsoever.
By seven o’clock she’s fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotch’s lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you haven’t been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.
“Are you hungry?” you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.
Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leia’s back while she purrs in his lap.
“I’m fine.”
You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “Any updates?”
He glances back down at his screen. “Garcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should have—Morgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossi’s pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who might’ve had access to your name outside the official reports.”
You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.
“Are you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?”
His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.
“You think this is nothing?”
His voice stays calm, but there’s something firmer underneath it now.
“You’ve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still haven’t identified,” he says. “Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossi’s pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garcia’s been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“My job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,” he says quietly. “Let me do that.”
Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasn’t said anything unusual at all.
Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.
He’s just doing his job. Looking out for his team. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because someone threatened one of his agents.
That’s all.
You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. “I’m—uh—I’m just going to shower quickly. If that’s alright.”
He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”
“No,” you say immediately. “God, no. No. It’s fine. Totally fine.”
His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.
Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while you’re dripping wet and completely naked.
You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isn’t totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, they’re just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least they’re not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.
If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.
“No, wait for Morgan before you approach,” Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. “If the registration’s fake, I don’t want you making contact until we know exactly who’s inside.”
He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.
“Alright. Keep me updated.”
He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emerged—and for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. It’s only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.
“Garcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,” he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. “The driver’s been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldn’t pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.”
Your stomach tightens.
“The name on the reservation was fake,” he continues, “but the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.”
The name hits you immediately.
“Ethan Mercer’s brother,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods. “Rossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.”
You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.
“Ethan barely spoke during the trial,” you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. “I don’t think I ever even met his brother.”
“You wouldn’t need to,” Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. “People build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when they’re looking for someone to blame.”
Your skin prickles. “You really think it’s him?”
“It fits,” Hotch replies evenly. “Established emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.”
He straightens, turning back toward you—and for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.
He clears his throat. “This probably isn’t something he’s done before. But his brother has.”
The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.
“Well,” you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. “On the bright side, I still think I’ve dated worse.”
The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always do—easy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.
Except this time Hotch does pause.
“Why do you do that?”
You frown. “Do what?”
“Deflect.” He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. “Every time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.”
You lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m just charming.”
“No.” His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. “No, because it changes depending on the situation.”
Your pulse stutters.
“With Morgan it’s competitive,” he continues, setting the papers back on the table. “You tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.”
“Wow,” you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. “Starting to feel a little attacked here.”
But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.
“The dating profile doesn’t fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Neither does the apartment.”
Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.
“You project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.” His eyes flick back toward you again. “You live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.”
“Leave Leia out of this.”
“She doesn’t like strangers.”
“She likes you.”
The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.
“You keep people at a distance,” he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. “Even the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.” He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Except Reid.”
Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.
“You trust him,” Hotch says. “Not just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when you’re stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.” He pauses, watching you carefully now. “And earlier you said he’d been profiling you all week.”
Oh God.
“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”
He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few months—years—in real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought you’d hidden quickly enough.
“You track me.”
The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like he’s still realising them.
“You know my routines,” he continues slowly. “You anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you can’t see me.” He steps closer again. “You know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.”
Your breath stutters.
And Hotch notices immediately.
His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.
“Your breathing changes when I get too close to you,” he says quietly.
He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.
“You stop fidgeting,” he continues. “You go completely still.” His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. “Like you’re afraid movement alone is going to give you away.”
Your heart is beating so hard now you’re half-convinced he can hear it.
“You lose verbal fluency,” he says, voice lower now. “You trip over words you normally wouldn’t. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing it—”
His eyes lock onto yours.
“You redirect.”
You can barely breathe now.
He’s standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where you’re perched on the counter.
And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus he’d bring to an unsub—except this time the thing he’s slowly uncovering is the fact that you’ve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.
You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.
“Figured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?” you ask softly.
He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.
The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.
His throat shifts slightly.
And then—
His phone rings.
He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.
“Hotchner,” he says, pressing his phone against his ear.
You don’t hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morgan’s muffled voice, but you can’t quite hear what he’s saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.
Because holy fuck.
Holy fuck.
What the hell just happened?
“They got him.”
Your head snaps up. “They what?”
Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.
“It was him. Daniel Mercer,” he says. “Morgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.”
“Oh.”
“Local PD recovered notebooks too,” he continues. “Names, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercer’s conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.”
A cold shiver slips down your spine.
“Garcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,” Hotch adds. “Once Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. He’d been building the grievance for months.”
He pauses, then looks at you.
“But they got him.”
“Good,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.
“Local PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,” he says, sliding the papers into his bag. “Garcia’s already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.”
You nod. “Okay.”
Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.
“There’ll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,” he says. “And if you don’t want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.”
“I’ll be fine,” you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. “You can stop babysitting me now.”
Hotch stills.
Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.
“Babysitting?” he repeats.
“You know what I mean.”
He steps toward you, brows drawn. “I don’t think I do.”
“You solved the case,” you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “You profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktail—” You let out a short, humourless laugh. “You can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.”
He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise he’s moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where he’d been when you asked him if he’d figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.
“You’re being deliberately provocative now because you’re embarrassed,” he says. “But embarrassment isn’t actually your primary response here.”
His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.
“If it was,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.
But you can’t.
All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt you’ve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.
You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.
Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.
His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isn’t entirely sure he has permission yet.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like he’s still holding himself back even now.
But the restraint doesn’t last long.
Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.
Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—and somehow that’s what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.
His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip it’s deliberate, measured—a sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing he’s making sure of.
Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.
“Aaron—”
“Bedroom,” he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. “Now.”
FRIDAY 6:15AM
Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakes—
Oh God.
The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.
Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowly—so slowly—toward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.
Your stomach swoops.
You slept with your boss last night.
With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.
You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.
“Do you really get up this early?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”
His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Because my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.”
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.
“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.
Then he tugs on your sweater again—hard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.
“Yeah,” you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. “He’s awful. Very demanding.”
He hums, breath warm against your skin.
“He’s really hot, though,” you add, smiling despite yourself. “So I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.”
“Oh, he notices.”
Your stomach flips. “Really?”
“Mhm.”
His arm tightens around your waist. “He notices the skirts.”
Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”
“He notices the tights.” His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. “The ones with the seam up the back.”
“Oh my God.”
You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.
“And the red bra,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
“Noticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.”
You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but it’s no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.
“My washing machine broke that week,” you whine. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Mm, sure.”
You twist around immediately. “I’m not lying.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but before you can protest again—he kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.
“Careful,” you murmur, breathless against his mouth. “Don’t want to be late.”
You feel his lips curve.
“Good thing I’m the boss.”
10:35AM
You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a ‘What Now?’ conversation—that ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadn’t even hesitated when you’d finally asked what happens next. In fact, he’d answered a little too quickly.
The first thing he’d asked was whether you’d be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because he’s worried about the team finding out—he trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point he’d even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureau’s fraternisation policies before making any moves.
That was when you kissed him—effectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.
Because he’d clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, he’d already known exactly what he was getting himself into.
“Alright, gorgeous,” Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. “They’ll be ready for you downstairs in ten.”
You glance up at him, brows drawn—and it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what he’s talking about.
“Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah, I’ll head down soon. Thanks.”
Prentiss looks over from her desk. “You gonna be okay?”
You lift a shoulder. “Sure. What’s another case report?”
Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. “It’s not exactly every day you’re the victim, baby girl.”
“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”
Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.
“Because of the team,” you add quickly. “You guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.” You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.
“You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,” he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.
You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.”
Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.
You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutes—when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.
“Rossi’s taking Wallace with you next week,” Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.
You blink up at him. “I thought you were leading the interview.”
“I was.”
Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.
“Wallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,” he says. “Especially women.”
You frown. “Hotch, I—”
“And if he says something to you in that room,” he continues evenly, “or looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.”
Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yours—steady, intense, devastatingly honest.
“Right now,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure that’s me.”
Then he’s gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasn’t just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if you’d been focused on it at all in the first place.
“…Huh.”
You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity he’d been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.
an// YOU GUYS! Y’all crushed Showtime so much, I had to write a lil extra of the team figuring it all out! Truly thank you to everyone who enjoyed it, I cannot remember the last time I had a fic get so much support! TY 💐
-
It was hard for you and Aaron to go back to being at odds after being undercover. It's been weeks, but it’s taking some time for that mask to go completely back on at work. The team kicked it all back off again with a joke the second you sit down for a briefing.
“Thanks for joining us, Mrs. Hayes.” Morgan smirks, turning in his chair back and forth.
You roll your eyes while Emily sits down next to you and asks him, “You’re still stuck on that?”
“We watched them kiss how many times? You’ve moved on?”
You flip open your file, “You’re welcome for the obsession.”
Hotch doesn’t look up, “Focus, please.”
You look up and glance around at everyone in the room. Rossi’s eyes are already studying you with a small smile.
He taps his fingers on the table before speaking, “Let’s profile a hypothetical.”
The team begins looking between you and Aaron in a curious way.
Emily laughs, “No way. Not with this unit. Impossible.”
“Is it?” Rossi questions.
Hotch doesn’t look up from his file, and you take a sip of your coffee. No reaction.
JJ leans forward, joining their hypothetical, “Okay, so what was the trigger event?”
“Undercover assignment that required intimacy.” Rossi gestures between you two.
Morgan grins, “And boom, they’re both suddenly very convincing.”
“We’re right here.” You finally set down your file.
“Yes,” Garcia grins, “That’s what makes this fun!”
“That level of physical ease doesn’t come overnight.”
You don’t dare cut a look to Aaron, that would not go unnoticed right now. They go back and forth continuing to debate if Hotch was faking uncomfortability the first day undercover or if he was just uncomfortable under their eyes.
“At the risk of my job,” Garcia meekly raises her hand, “After the Flagstaff case I did look into their schedules-”
“Garcia!” Hotch warns.
She unsurprisingly barrels on anyway, “Their access badges have had the same arrival time since Halloween.”
“Lots of people arrive at the same time.”
“Y/n and Hotch also leave within three minutes of each other on non-field days.” Spencer states.
Hotch finally exhales one through his nose. You look up to the ceiling and fight the urge to just close your eyes.
“And they have the same gym sessions blocked out every Tuesday and Thursday, but their badges are never scanned in.”
“Oh my god!” JJ gasps.
Rossi squints, “Why are you so calm right now?”
“Because,” You keep your voice even, “this is entertaining.”
Emily’s eyes widen and she smacks your shoulder, “Oh my god.”
You look over to Aaron finally, the corner of his mouth twitching up barely.
“Hotch.” Morgan notices it too and calls him out.
No denial. Just silence.
Morgan leans back slowly, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
The realization sinks in over the rest of the team. They no longer shout their ideas and evidence over each other, instead they look between you two eagerly. Chomping at the bit for any and every detail.
“You aren’t denying it.” Emily is practically shaking your shoulders now.
You laugh while shrugging her away, “You’re profilers. Profile.”
“Oh, that is so confirmation!” Garcia squeals.
Morgan suddenly stands from his chair, “Months! This has been going on for months?”
Rossi smiles, still just looking between you at Hotch, “Minimum.”
“I feel betrayed,” Emily groans, “How many girls nights out have we had?”
“You let me make undercover kiss jokes for weeks.” Morgan chuckles, shaking his head in pure disbelief.
You can’t help but grin, “You seemed happy.”
“This is the most controlled long-con relationship in BAU history.” Spencer points out.
Hotch meets their eyes. No apology. Just a quiet and quick acknowledgement.
“Yes.”
Rossi claps one, “Well done. Both of you.”
“You realize that we’re never letting this go, right?”
You smile softly now, “We never never expected you would.”
“Human resources have been aware since the relationship started.” Hotch states.
“Which was when exactly?” JJ raises her brows.
You know that Hotch has a lot he wants to reassure the team about. The power imbalance. The age-gap. All of them are completely valid concerns.
Hotch finally closes his file and sets it back on the table. It’s clear they aren’t going to start this briefing anytime soon.
-
Towards the end of the day everyone is reviewing their reports at their desks, trying to get their work done to head home for the weekend. The bullpen is still riding the high of the new revelation, the energy still bouncing off of everyone. You contemplated working in the lair to get away from everyone’s teasing comments, but you know being trapped one on one with Garcia is far more dangerous than everyone else.
The elevator dings.
JJ looks up first, “Hey, Jack’s here.”
Hotch looks up immediately, coming to stand at the top of the stairs by the door to his office. His whole expression softens when Jack trots in with his backpack on and a paper in hand. He makes a beeline for his dad, but detours halfway. Straight to you.
You roll back from your desk in time for a big hug.
“Hi.”
You smile down at him and instinctively brush his hair back, “Hey, you.”
Morgan freezes mid sip and Emily’s brows raise a couple degrees.
JJ whispers, “Oh this is going to be good.”
Hotch clears his throat lightly, “Jack.”
He turns to look up at his dad, “What?”
“You wanna show me what you brought?” Hotch nods down to the piece of paper he has protectively in his hand.
“In a second,” He turns back to you, “Are you still coming over tonight?”
The bullpen goes totally silent.
You don’t miss a beat, “That depends. Did you do your chores already?”
“Yeah, Dad said we should do it before you came over this weekend.”
“Jack…” Hotch warns.
You can tell he’s just getting started.
“Look!” He finally presents the piece of paper he had been holding. It’s a drawing of three stick figures all standing together holding hands. It isn’t labeled with names, but the details make it’s clear who he drew. Jack, Aaron, and you. One of many drawings.
“This is a good one!” You smile softly and lean down to press a kiss to the top of his head, “Go show your dad.”
He launches off of you to chase up the stairs to his dad.
“We built a full behavioral timeline and Garcia hacked into numerous FBI databases when we could’ve just asked the witness.” Rossi shakes his head.
“Always ask the child.” JJ nods.
“Thanks, buddy.” Hotch takes the drawing from him and bends down to scoop him up in a hug.
“I know you said we’re not supposed to tell people at work-”
“It’s okay, buddy.” Aaron reassures.
“Weeks of deduction.” Morgan shakes his head.
“Hell, you should hire him.” Rossi chuckles, “He’s a natural.”
Jack looks confused, “Y/n said that honesty matters.”
You laugh, “Yes, I did. It does matter.”
You hear Emily huff an ‘mhm’ somewhere behind you. You’re sure the whole team just rolled their eyes.
Morgan walks up to Jack and offers him a fist bump, “You closed the case faster than all of us.”
Jack beams, “Does that mean I get a badge?”
“Okay,” Emily leans against the edge of her desk and asks, “Details, Agent.”
Jack nods seriously, “She sleeps over a lot.”
“Jack.”
Hotch’s warning to his son does nothing to stop the red that takes over your face. Your elbows are resting on your desk when you put your head down in your hands.
“What? Honesty matters.”
“Define ‘a lot’.” Morgan continues.
You look up and make eye contact with Aaron. Wordlessly, still holding each other’s gaze while letting them continue asking Jack a plethora of questions. You smile, quiet teasing with a shake of your head, “Rookie mistake.”
Aaron gives you a look. Warm and unguarded. His smile is real, full of life and tender. The expression that is totally foreign to the team on his face, but they now know it belongs to you.
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Something like the reader catches micheal attempting to jerk off and embarrassingly forces him to admit to what he was doing while she "punishes" him
craving subby michael? don’t even joke lad.
Need Help ?
contains otw!era michael, smut (minors dni), handjob, edging, teasing, sub!michael, he’s pathetic as fuckkkk, ur mean, semi-proofread
Tonight, like most nights, everyone’s focus was on Michael. A private dinner in the backyard of Hayvenhurst, close loved ones in the rising pop star’s heart celebrating the success of his newest album, Off The Wall. First solo album where he had creative control, and could finally become a proper solo artist without no longer being tied to The Jackson 5.
Friends shook his hand, family giving him a tight hug while whispering a quick ‘I’m so proud of you’ in his ear, but nobody’s support could’ve outshined yours.
Of course you were there. It’s impossible for him to picture a universe where you weren’t in his life, by his side, helping with every hardship he’s faced. You couldn’t imagine yourself holding any other title other than Michael Jackson’s best friend, because of how perfect the role has sat within you over the years.
However, Michael is beginning to disagree. Especially with tonight, losing count how many times his eyes have taken him to your direction.
How oblivious you are to the way his gaze undresses you from where he sits beside, soaking up every gussied feature on you. The way your dress hasn’t missed a curve of yours to hug, breasts being nicely lifted, wanting to see how well they would fit in the palms of his hands instead. The way he’s now realizing how stunning gold jewelry looks against the complexion of your skin, giving him an idea on what to gift you for your next birthday. The way the glossy red on your lips reminds him of freshly picked strawberries in the spring, wondering if it would taste like them too if he closed the distance.
The way he knew he accidentally let his fantasies run a little too long, a tent in his pants starting to form.
“Isn’t that right, Michael?” You bring him back to reality, surroundings no longer quiet. He’s quick to bring a hand to cover his crotch as subtly as he could make it look, forgetting just how many people are here.
“Uhm, sorry, what?”
You gave him a scolding look for not paying attention, nodding your head towards his mother. “I was bringing up when you came over for the first time, and didn’t know I had a dog.”
You and his mother start giggling as you both reminisce, even more so at the color leaving his face, thinking it’s because of the mortifying memory being brought up.
No, it’s actually because he got a whiff of your dreamy vanilla perfume scent, and it went immediately to his dick, pants getting tighter.
“Oh my gosh, the scream you let out when my tiny baby tried jumping on your lap to give you kisses! People down the road thought someone was dying.”
Your guys’ laughter is drown out as he mentally draws a plan to escape, needing to be anywhere but here.
Michael barely was discreet in the way he stood up so suddenly, startling you two, about to bring a concerned hand to his side.
“Michael? Are you alri—“
“Sorry, gotta pee.” Is all he said before speed-walking across the lawn, ignoring any family member trying to stop him for a quick conversation on the way.
In a blink of an eye, Michael found himself in his room upstairs, shutting the door with one hand and fumbling his belt open with the other. He’s painfully hard, no strength he can find within him to ignore it.
The edge of the bed dips as he sits, pants and boxers shoved only halfway to his legs, impatient to wrap his palm around his erection.
The memory of your appearance and smell sharpens as he begins to touch himself, quieting his breathing as best he could.
His strokes are slow, eyes slipping closed, attempting to ignore the first burn of guilt brewing deep in his stomach for having such thoughts about his best friend, while having a bunch of family over.
Having his eyes closed had him fail to see the way he forgot to lock the door in the hurry he was in to be alone, knob turning to reveal you entering.
“Michael? Are you in her—“
You didn’t finish your sentence. The words died on your tongue as soon as you saw him jump from being frightened, hard cock still in hand. You wanted to check up on him, because it’s been a minute since he left for the bathroom. You were worried bringing up that embarrassing moment of his with your dog might’ve been too far on your part, so you searched to comfort him.
Yet, this wasn’t the sight you were expecting yourself to see upon entering his room. You also weren’t expecting yourself to feel your stomach do a weird flip as he begin to struggle to find the right words to explain himself, breath held hostage in his throat.
He stutters out your name, brain lagging, trying to find a version of reality where this isn’t happening. “Wh— I—I’m so sorry, shit—“
Michael doesn’t hear the click of you locking the door, or see you slowly make your way over to him, too busy trying to get his pants back on and avoid your possible disgusted stare.
“I — I was just—“ his voice cracks, sounding like he’s about to cry, too humiliated to even breathe. “Please just forget about this and go back downstairs, this is so embar—“
You cut him off. “Were you thinking of me?”
His eyes now meet yours, because he isn’t sure if he heard you correctly. You don’t blink, holding his stare, a tilt of your head to urge him to answer you.
He flinches in surprise when you take a seat next to him, giving one look down then pinning him again with your gaze. “Did I do that?”
The air between you thickens, heavy with something searing. He sees the way your lips part, breath fanning warm against his cheek, watching how you’re savoring this moment rather than being embarrassed for him, like any other person would.
“What? N-No, I mean—“
You cut him off again. “Don’t lie to me, Mikey. I’ve seen the way you’ve been staring at me all night.”
Oh, so you weren’t oblivious like he thought.
You can see how afraid he was to speak, not too sure if this is truly happening or not.
“I’d be a terrible best friend to not help you out, wouldn’t I? After all, I did cause this.” You gently remove his hand that’s been hiding his cock from you, causing the heat to pulse through him like a wave.
Michael’s mind is in a battle of being convinced if he’s dreaming or not. He hates the way his legs instinctively open up for you, heart pounding like it’s trying to burst out of his ribs. Shame still clings onto his skin like sweat, but he doesn’t dwell on it any further as soon as your fingers curl around his thick length.
You give him a slow stroke, watching the way his jaw tightens. You revel in how he doesn’t know whether to stop you or take lead, resorting to just bunching the sheets beneath where you two sit.
“Do you know how many people downstairs are wondering where you are?” Your thumb circles the head and you let your hand linger there, not quite giving what he needs, not quite letting him have anything at all.
“Not knowing you’re hiding, touching yourself to the thought of me.” You finally hear him make a sound, the smallest of a mewl. You graze your mouth over his cheek, then to the corner of his mouth, careful not to give him the satisfaction of a real kiss. “How disrespectful, during a party thrown for you.”
He shakes his head, wishing he couldn’t hear how pathetic his tone is right now. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please, just..!”
You blink through your lashes innocently, ignoring how his cock glistens in your fist. “Please just what? Please just keep moving my hand like this?” You tease as you drag your palm a little faster, just enough to make his hips jerk.
He nods, lips pressed tight, not wanting to hear the whine in his voice again. Yet you wouldn’t let that cross, strokes going back to slow, squeezing tight at the base. “It looks like you want something. You want to come, huh? Tell me. Tell me or I’ll stop.”
He swallows any drop of dignity left in him, brain completely turned to mush. He nods, pathetic as ever, a whimper evident through his words. “Yes, yes, I want to come.”
You smile, bottom lip caught between your teeth. You didn’t think how easy this would be, turning him into a babbling dumb mess under your touch. How long has he been yearning for this? As long as you have?
You continue working your hand but begin to hum in thought. “Hmm, I don’t know.” You tease the sensitive spot just under the head with your thumb until his hips jerk up again and swear under his breath. “Maybe if you tell me you’re sorry again for sneaking away to jerk off.”
He doesn’t even hesitate, the pleasure becoming too loud. “I’m sorry! Very, very sorry, I’m— oh!”
You flick your tongue to taste his lower lip, making him chase your mouth as you pull away, grinning. “I’m sorry to who?”
“Y-You…!” He shudders, heart pounding at the sound of your voice as you hold him right there. Your hand on his cock, mouth teasing him, the look in your eyes as you make him wait, make him admit how humiliating he made this situation become for himself.
You feign confusion, but your hand never slows. “Im sorry for what?”
God, you’re killing him.
“For t-touching myself!” He responds with a moan breaking out of his chest, hips bucking up into your hand without any sense of control anymore. You have your eyes meet his again, to have him see how much you love having him desperate beneath you.
“Say please again.”
His voice cracks, the knot of desire tightening in him until he can barely see straight. “Please— God, please let me come.”
And then you stopped. You pull your hand away, ignoring the way his cock twitches for its familiar warmth back. His gasp is filled with frustration punched deep in his chest, near orgasm snatched from him so quick it left him dazed and at a loss for words.
You go to stand, fixing your dress that rid up a little.
“I’ll let you do it yourself. Next time, don’t ever hide away from me.”
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Synopsis: during the award show you attend with your husband, he performs "They way you make me feel" song from his album BAD along with Tatiana during which she kisses him and goes off script which surprises both you and Michael. And just like that, he spends the rest of his night making desperate attempts for your forgiveness and make things right between you two.
Pairings: bad!era!husband!michael x popstar!reader
Note: again, there r no descriptions of the reader but reader IS wearing the dress in the header shown above :) I made reader go easy on our mikey cause he's a sweetheart :) also, this is all I could do keeping in count of the word count.
The applause inside the theater was deafening.
You sat in the front row, smoothing invisible wrinkles from your outfit as cameras swept across the audience. Beside you, Michael sat, moving his head to the beat of the song.
Attending award shows with Michael wasn't something new. Especially since he'd been your husband for three years now, you always found a way to stick together.
Tonight, both of you were nominated for various categories, along with Michael performing a few songs from his new album, "BAD", which everyone was eagerly waiting for.
Michael slowly slipped his hand underneath yours, intertwining your fingers and holding you tightly.
He leaned in. "I think I'll be up in a few."
And just as he said that, the crew called him backstage so he could get ready for his performance. He nodded at them and then looked at you, his grip tightening.
"Wish me luck."
"All the best, baby," you whispered, smiling at him.
He wore his familiar grin and bent down to press a quick kiss to your lips before heading backstage, pumped that you'd wished him luck.
After a few performances, the lights went out and silence took over.
The drums of "Bad" started playing, and everyone lost their minds. The audience started screaming and shouting. You smiled as he began performing and sang along with him.
You watched proudly as he performed a few songs, the cameraman focusing on you every once in a while.
And then came "The Way You Make Me Feel."
You loved this song, mainly because of the number of times he'd sung it for you in your living room or in the kitchen while you were washing dishes, making you laugh at his antics.
Tatiana entered, surprising everyone, and Michael followed her around the stage while singing the lyrics, creating a scene for the audience just like in his music video.
After a while, both of them came to the center of the stage, facing each other as Michael continued to sing. Tatiana leaned closer, and just as Michael was about to turn, she closed the gap and pressed a kiss to his lips.
Oh shit was the first thing that Michael thought.
The camera immediately panned to you as you sat there in surprise, your eyebrows raised, clearly showing your distaste and not caring about the camera in your face.
Your mind went blank, and so did his. His eyes widened for a quick second as she did that, and he moved away before she could keep her arms around him.
He couldn't really focus on the performance anymore. He locked eyes with you and saw the look on your face, which made his heart race.
You stayed quiet for the rest of his performance, not smiling and clapping like you had earlier. Meanwhile, Michael was rapidly thinking of ways to explain it to you.
As the performance ended, he immediately gave Tatiana a look and said, "You absolutely had no right to do that Tatina. Just so you know, we ain't going to perform anymore." Then he rushed to the restroom.
He splashed water on his face and scrubbed his lips harder than necessary, which had touched Tatiana's a few moments ago. He stared at his reflection and felt so bad imagining how you must've felt while everyone was looking at you.
He settled down beside you and tried to grab your hand, but you pulled away, looking forward.
"Baby," he said in his pleading tone while facing you, which made your heart melt, but you stayed strong.
He took hold of your hand forcefully, keeping it between both of his hands.
"Baby, I'm sorry, but you have to hear me out."
"Not now, Michael."
His heart broke at the distant tone. He looked at you for a long second with his pretty brown eyes and then leaned back in his seat, looking at the stage while not letting go of your hand.
The night ended with both of you winning multiple awards as you got ready to go home. Michael's hand rested on your waist as he guided you to the car along with Bill.
"Michael, how do you feel about kissing another woman while having a wife?"
"Are you having an open marriage?"
"Y/N, what do you think about your husband kissing another woman?"
"Is this a marketing strategy?"
"Michael, was the kiss planned?"
The questions were being fired left and right as you both made your way to the car, making you increasingly agitated.
"No, it was an accident. I love my wife too much do something like that. Stop it," he said to the reporters, loud and clear, before opening the door for you.
Your heart warmed at that as he settled beside you and closed the door while Bill started driving.
"Baby, can you please look at me?" he asked, his body completely turned toward you as he held your upper arm.
"Let's talk when we get home, Michael."
"Don't do that."
"Don't do what?"
"Call me by my name."
You rolled your eyes. "Michael—"
He cut you off. "No."
You scoffed and looked out the window.
Bill looked at both of you through the mirror, sensing the tension, and tried to break it.
"What an eventful night. Am I right?"
"Indeed, an eventful night," you replied, your jaw tight.
Michael closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath and slowly turned forward so he could throw daggers into Bill's head with his stare.
Bill sensed it and tried to hide his laugh by clearing his throat as you finally reached home.
......
After removing your makeup and jewelry, you tried to remove your dress. Michael came up behind you and slowly began undoing the buttons of your corset.
You tried to move away, but his hands shot up to your bare shoulders and pulled you back against him.
"Baby, seriously, how long are you going to keep this up?" he asked, trying to catch your eyes in the mirror.
"As long as I want to," you said, not looking at the mirror.
"You need to hear me out, pretty girl," he pleaded as his hands worked on the buttons.
"I swear I didn't know she was going to pull that move. I was just as surprised as you."
You rolled your eyes, being petty.
"Sure you were."
He nuzzled his face into your neck, his hands sliding inside the corset to rest on your waist as he hummed.
"Mhm, I really was, baby."
You moved your neck away at that.
"Don't let your 'Tatiana lips' touch my skin."
He paused for a moment, chuckling, and turned you around to face him. His hands rested on your ribcage while his thumbs caressed your sides.
"Baby, I washed my lips right after the show. C'mon, mama, don't be so harsh on me."
"Whatever," you said, still not looking at him.
He held your jaw and turned your face so you were looking at him.
"Such a stubborn thing, aren't you? I'm sorry, baby, I really am. I told her off. She isn't t going to perform with me anymore. You know I only love you, right? I only care about you."
You melted at that but still chose not to reply.
He observed your face for a few seconds, his eyes roaming over your features.
"Give your man a kiss, mama, please," Michael pleaded, his voice cracking at the end as he leaned in and kissed your lips softly.
Unable to resist any further, you gave in and kissed him back which made him groan. He guided your hands around his neck while his hands roamed over your bare shoulders and back.
"How are you going to make it up to me?" you asked after pulling back, giving him a knowing look.
He looked at you and grinned.
"Oh, you'll see," he said as he kissed you again, leading you toward the bed.
... Dats it kids. Da rest is upto ur imagination, whether they cuddle or... Play twister in bed.
Note: there was smtg happening while writing this fic... So its lowk ass but it's Michael jackson nd yn so they saved it 🙂↕️ anywyas enjoy dis wonky ahh not good fanfic. Lolz RAWRRR... Idk IDKIDKIDK IM LOWK HYPERVENTILATING IK KTS NAWT AS GOOD AS UR EXPECTATIONS SORRY GUYS AGHHHH SIDJDKFJHGKFJGJG sorry tehe
Taglist of beryyy pretty people 😍😍😍: @58applestall @minghaossv @zanyana626 @1dk-her @undeadzombiebrainz @hwa2tiny
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